


Blessed Blood

by kris967d



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Explicit Sexual Content, Harrymort - Freeform, M/M, Politics, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Rebels, Royal Harry, Seer Harry Potter, Smart Harry, Soulmates, Unreliable Narrator, court intrigue, eventually at least - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:22:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21742150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kris967d/pseuds/kris967d
Summary: Hadrian 'Harry' Potter had lived his entire life as an outcast amongst the outcasts, knowing little of the people who brought him into the world except that they were rebels on the run from the Crown.It therefore comes as quite the shock when a maroon-eyed man arrives to tell him that he is, in fact, the rightful heir to the Throne of Britannia, and that he must exchange his quiet life of medicine for the intrigues of politics and the court.Whilst attempting to adapt to royalty and the manipulations of everyone around him, Harry must also find out exactly what it is this very intense and maroon-eyed Lord Voldemort wants from him.Sort of medieval AU in a fantasy land governed by the Pure Blood elite of the magically gifted.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Voldemort
Comments: 19
Kudos: 197





	1. Chapter 1: Blessed Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there!
> 
> This is an old idea I've had lying around for some time now that I thought I'd finally post. I think it came from watching a lot of Game of Thrones - though this not at all like that. Wherever it came from, it's here now!
> 
> I don't know where I'm going with it; I just wanted to play around here. I made up any and all genealogies, and I'm not sure magic will be performed in the same way here as in the original HP books. But I suppose that's the beauty of fanfic; it doesn't have to be the same... :)
> 
> I'm very busy, and updates will probably be few and far between. Consider yourselves warned. I'm currently in my first year of my MSc, so it will be when I have time and inspiration strikes... 
> 
> Constructive criticism is always welcome; and I have no one but myself proofreading this, so just let me know. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy! :)  
> \- Kris

Severus quietly observed the Dark Lord as chaos raged around the long council table. He was lounging unconcernedly in the dark, high-backed chair at the head of said table, one elbow supported by a sturdy armrest with his chin propped on the connected closed fist as he was staring contemplatively at the far wall. Seemingly paying no heed to the warring lords and ladies who each governed a share of a land that had just lost the last legitimate heir to its throne. Severus mentally scoffed.

The frantic fighting around him was meaningless, and they all knew it. Britannia might have lacked a crowned monarch at the moment, but leaderless it was not. The Dark Lord Voldemort officially upheld the title of the Commander of Arms and Protector of the Realm, but there could be no mistake that he _ruled the country_ ; he ruled its people; he ruled whomever had and would sit on its throne; and he ruled this council. They were all of them playing at pretend – they would try to shout louder than the ones around them in the hopes that their Lord would hear and reward them, knowing full well that he would do exactly as he liked and they would defer. Simpering and immediately.

How Severus hated being here.

As though he had spoken the words aloud, the Dark Lord’s eyes flashed to him, catching both his study of the man and his displeasure at the people around him. The sharp gaze softened in amusement and sensuous lips twitched at the corners. Severus scowled subtly, but openly, back. His Lord truly rejoiced in his pain. Those lips now fully curved and crinkles appeared around the eyes.

“My Lord! My son has bravely and successfully led many raids against the rebels in the East, and he will soon celebrate his nineteenth year. He is strong and will make even stronger children – surely you must see the merit?”

“Your _son_? Your son is an in-bred half-wit, _Lord_ Goyle, who doesn’t know East from any of the other directions unless firmly steered! Nay, my Lord, think instead of my daughter! My Millicent has learned from the most accomplished Masters of War and is, as such, an undefeatable strategist. She is _deadly_ with a sword and will command the respect deserved as a Queen under your guidance!”

“Oh, please, we all know your daughter lacks the finesse and diplomacy a ruler should possess, Lady Bulstrode. My Lord, if I may – Draco has been taught by _your_ own most trusted fighters and advisors. He knows the dance of politics well and would do you great justice if provided the chance.”

“Gods above, will all of you just _shut up_ about your worthless whelps? None of them have even the slightest claim to the Throne of Britannia, and you well know it! They will never rule, and if you simply keep bickering meaninglessly over it, we will grow grey and old before adjourning this council!”

Well, it might be said that Sir Bartemius ‘Barty’ Crouch was slightly unhinged and had received a blow or two too many to the head during his time as one of the Dark Lord’s most trusted Death Eaters, but damn it all if Severus couldn’t kiss the man. When the lords and ladies began to sputter collectively in indignant offense over the crass rebuke of their conduct from a source they, no doubt, considered beneath them, the Dark Lord finally reacted. A smooth, but obviously powerful, hand was raised into the tension-filled air. From his position two seats from the head of the table, Severus could just make out the ornately twisted golden ring with a single, glowing emerald that he knew had been cut finely with magic into the shape of a roaring lion’s head – the sigil of the crown.

When silence didn’t immediately descend upon the table, the Dark Lord straightened in his seat, and the dark eyes that had twinkled merrily at him only moments ago bled crimson and a sneer lifted those perfect lips. Severus had to repress a shiver as his heart skipped a beat – these people really were _fools_.

“ _Silence_.”

The deep and dark tone of his Lord was not raised; it did not need to be. The Dark Lord’s magic reached mercilessly across the room to painfully stifle and punish his subjects into submission and stillness, before he addressed them again.

“I do not appreciate the childish and uncouth behaviour conducted so far in this council meeting. You are not only knights and noble men and women of Britannia; you are also, and above all, _my_ chosen and anointed subjects. You will act as such or leave this table at once.”

The Dark Lord’s words were spoken carefully and slowly – dangerously – so that no one could mistake the warning. When no one had moved or breathed in a fear-filled moment, he spoke again.

“Good,” his Lord said in a lighter tone of voice whilst raising a single brow in feigned praise before he relaxed slightly back in his chair, resting both his hands regally on either armrest. “Now then, I must first address those of you who so… humbly and selflessly offered your heirs as prospective monarchs,” he continued mockingly, and Severus had to bite back a snicker of cruel delight at the embarrassed flushes and averted eyes around the table. “Whilst I am sure that they are formidable and honourable in their own rights, I must unfortunately agree with Barty on this matter. The people of this country believe religiously that he or she who wears the crown does so by the right of birth and the blessing of the gods. I _hope_ I do not have to explain to you the riot and rebellion we can expect, if we merely pass it along to the highest bidder of the richest and most privileged.” His Lord emphasised his words by levelling a serious gaze at all those who had hoped to buy themselves onto the throne.

The silence of the room broke as the lords and ladies hurried to apologize and agree with the Dark Lord, but he simply waved his hand dismissively at them and looked to Sir Andromeda Black, the Chief of the City Guard, who sat to the immediate left of Severus.

“Andromeda, how have the news of the King’s untimely death been received by the people of the capital?” He asked briskly, clearly wanting to steer the council in a productive direction.

Andromeda straightened in her seat and cleared her throat. “The news broke just an hour after noon yesterday that King Neville had died, though no one knows why or how this came to pass yet, and so the people are naturally in a state of shock and confusion,” Andromeda started firmly before she pursed her lips and her voice softened. “They are also saddened; the general consensus throughout not just the capital, but also the country, is that King Neville was just and kind, if not a little young and… inexperienced,” she finished carefully.

Severus snorted quietly next to her, earning him a sharp glare from the fierce lady knight. It could not be helped though – young and inexperienced seemed to him an understatement. Severus Snape was the Court Physician and Potions Master, though his cunning and cutting intelligence had landed him a favoured position as an advisor to the Dark Lord as well. One of his many undertakings and tasks at Hogwarts Castle had been to school the young King in the arts of potions and human anatomy; subjects that were important to any respectable witch or wizard, let alone the King of Britannia. And Severus could honestly say that he had never met a person with less affinity or grace for these teachings than King Neville Longbottom. The boy had had both clumsy feet and hands and was not particularly scientifically inclined, which, when combined, created a headache for any tutor.

But Severus had not just been any tutor – no, he had not wanted to be one to begin with. His occupation had been more than fulfilling and busied him quite enough before tutoring had been added to his workload. Against his will, even. It had been decided by the Royal Council that, when King Neville had lived eleven years and his magic had matured sufficiently for formal training, it would be prudent to employ Severus for this in the hopes that he could perhaps sharpen some of the too soft edges of the boy King’s disposition.

Needless to say, it had been a great joke to all throughout the last six years to see Severus’ slow descent into madness – none more so than the Dark Lord, who always began laughing instantly upon seeing his face at the end of a lesson.

The Dark Lord hummed in agreeance with Sir Andromeda’s statement. “We shall tell the people the truth – the King received a wound across the chest during training which, unfortunately, caught a fatal infection that claimed his life. It was an accident,” he said clearly with just a hint of grief on his brows that did not _seem_ fake or fabricated.

Severus gritted his teeth. He would not miss King Neville, no – but he did regret his death. He had been so young, and Severus had been helpless and unable to save him.

“I do not believe that this explanation will cause any unrest amongst the people, my Lord, but we do need to find a successor – the faster, the better,” Andromeda responded, “if the past is any indication, there will be trouble at the castle gates if we simmer too long at this council table.”

She was speaking, of course, of the time that King Neville’s grandmother, Augusta Longbottom, had been crowned Queen of Britannia some twenty years ago at the ripe age of fifty-five. It had been a tumultuous time in the country – King Albus Dumbledore had been murdered in the middle of the night, presumably by assassins of the Dark Lord Grindelwald of Germania (though Severus had his doubts), leaving no heirs to ascend the throne. Lord Voldemort, though back then only Lord Thomas Riddle, had led the battle against Grindelwald’s troops victoriously, avenging Britannia and gaining the trust and reverence of, and thus power over, the people and the council.

But the victory had been soured by the lack of a monarch; heavy downpour for two consecutive months and consequent floods had robbed many of their lives, their homes, and their crops. People believed it to be punishment by the gods for the lack of a King or Queen; after all, the monarch was chosen and blessed by the gods, and so to worship him or her was to worship them. As riots and chaos descended upon the lands, the Royal Council had to hastily find the nearest successor to the throne of Britannia – which was not an easy feat when the twenty-eight noble families represented at said council all believed themselves to have claim. In the end, though, after Severus’ predecessor had spent many days studying the genealogy of the noble families, it was discovered – to the disbelief and indignation of most of the council members – that the aging Augusta Longbottom was the closest living relative to the late King Albus. She was crowned Queen, and as though the gods had been gratified, the rain ceased and life returned to the lands. Queen Augusta, fair and just, was quick to appoint the victorious Lord Riddle the title of Commander of Arms, and because of his wicked intelligence and political savvy, he was quick to acquire the additional title of Protector of the Realm.

Crown or not, everyone here knew exactly who ruled Britannia.

Everyone murmured in grudging agreement with Sir Andromeda, some of them probably remembering the past quite vividly.

The Dark Lord nodded once at her and looked once more to Severus and addressed him for the first time that evening. “Severus, I know you have not had much time to study the noble bloodlines, but have you perchance found our next King or Queen?” Severus could feel his left eyebrow rise in irritation at his Lord. The question was posed innocently enough, but the Dark Lord knew very well what Severus Snape was capable of, and this? This was child’s play. The only reason the council twenty years ago had been dwelling on this issue for so long was because his predecessor had been Horace Slughorn, the epitome of incompetence.

The Dark Lord’s eyes laughed at him for the second time that evening, and Severus outright glared back before schooling his features back into a blank slate.

“King, my Lord,” Severus corrected as matter-of-factly as possible, his deep tone rising in volume as he emphasised for everyone at the long table, “the rightful ruler of Britannia is a boy, born, quite incredibly, of the same month of the same year as our late King Neville was.”

The amusement quickly bled out of the Dark Lord’s eyes as he listened to Severus speak.

Silence reigned over the council, until the Dark Lord spoke again.

“ _Who._ ”

Severus failed to suppress a shiver this time. It was barely a question, and his Lord’s voice had dropped to a low register that Severus normally would have admired. It was hard to do so, however, as those crimson eyes fastened on him with such intensity and fire that he had to swallow before continuing.

“It seems to me that the Court Physician before me made a grievous mistake in his research when he appointed Augusta Longbottom as the legitimate heir to the throne,” Severus revealed slowly, expecting the uproar that followed his statement.

The council members yelled out in surprise and anger before the Dark Lord silenced them all again with a fierce glare that no one dared contest. The red orbs returned to Severus’ black ones.

“Explain, Severus.”

Severus took a deep breath.

“Well, according to my records, the closest living relative of Albus Dumbledore at the time of his death would not have been Augusta Longbottom, but Dorea Potter, née Black,” Severus explained, _seeing_ the exact moment his Lord realized what he was saying.

“You’re not saying that…” Lord Regulus slowly intoned, incredulously following Severus’ description.

“She married Charlus Potter, with whom she had a son. James Potter,” Severus confirmed with a twist of his lips. How he hated having to do this. Before yesterday, he had thought he would never have to hear of that name again – that he would never have to think about everything that name entailed.

“The traitor who married that bitch of a mudblood?” Came the loud cry from across the table. It was fitting that these were thus far the only words he had heard from Lady Bellatrix Lestrange’s mouth. Her eyes had widened comically whilst her eyebrows were frowning, making her look exceedingly insane.

Severus quirked an eyebrow at her, used to her theatrical hysterics. “James Potter married Lily Evans – a rebel, yes.” The rebels were a faction of the lowliest born witches and wizards who hated and fought every concept of royalty and nobility, constantly working to overthrow the throne in the hopes of implementing a rule of the people, a so-called democracy. Really, they were a constant nuisance to the crown; but they were largely harmless as there was relatively few of them, and the common people respected the crown too much to pay them much heed.

“And they had a son,” the Dark Lord established intently, almost feverishly, as he stared unseeingly at Severus.

Slightly unnerved, Severus cleared his throat and replied, “Yes, my Lord. Hadrian James Potter was born on the last day of July almost seventeen years ago.”

“But they were traitors! We killed them in that raid in Little Hangleton! My Lord, please, you cannot think this is reasonable?” Bellatrix cried again, looking more deranged than Severus had ever seen her.

The Dark Lord paid her no mind at all, keeping his gaze upon Severus. “And where is the boy now, Severus?”

“It was decided quietly at the time, by Queen Augusta, to place the child with his mother’s relatives in Little Whinging-”

“Mudblood territory! My Lord!”

“Be _quiet_ , Bellatrix.” The Dark Lord spoke harshly as he glared at his, perhaps most loyal, subject. Bellatrix opened her mouth to protest but did not get the chance to, “Be quiet, or leave!”

She quickly clamped her jaws together, the sound of her teeth colliding disturbingly loud.

“My Lord, if I may,” started Lord Lucius Malfoy, who, to his credit, only hesitated slightly when the Dark Lord redirected his glare to him. “While Lady Bellatrix forgot her place for a moment, she did voice some valuable concerns. Surely, this… _boy_ , born to a traitor and a mud-… _rebel_ , who was then raised by rebel relatives in rebel outskirts… is not suitable for the throne?” Lucius looked mildly scandalized at just having allowed the words to leave his mouth.

The Dark Lord leaned back in his chair and lifted his chin as he contemplated his blond follower with narrowed eyes.

“Lucius, recite to me, please, the phrase carved over the entrance to Hogwarts Castle,” the Dark Lord ordered sweetly – and it was an order, pleasantry be damned.

Lucius’ eyes widened slightly in realization, and then resignation seemed to settle into his very bones as he released the smallest sighs before he recited, “Blessed Blood alone shall rule these Blessed Halls of Britannia.”

Lord Voldemort’s eyes gleamed with fire and his lips smiled wickedly, and Severus thought that he had never seen the man so alive before. 

“Blessed Blood alone, yes,” his Lord cooed softly, looking like a cat who knew exactly where and how to catch a mouse.

“It seems we have a rebel King to find, my friends.”


	2. Chapter 2: Premonition

_…Red orbs shining from within the darkness of a black hood…_

_“…there you are…”_

_…A flash of sharp teeth…_

_…A touch on his back, lips at his ear…_

_“…Hadrian James Potter…”_

_“…I shall confine you…”_

_“…Hadrian…”_

Hadrian ‘Harry’ Potter woke up on his seventeenth birthday with a sense of foreboding. He knew that something was going to happen today; something life-changing, definitely. He couldn’t discern whether that something would be for the better or worse, though.

He sighed and resigned himself to spending the day in tense anticipation. He would try to be prepared for… well, whatever would happen.

As he dressed himself in his usual black trousers and his emerald tunic, he couldn’t help but glancing at himself in the mirror he had placed on his small bedside table. Something even looked different about him than usual, though he couldn’t pinpoint exactly what.

Same full lips. Same straight nose. Same startling, green eyes. Same ragged scar.

He shrugged and hurried to his little wash basin, which he quickly filled with a thought. He splashed the delightfully cold water on his face, trying to wake himself up completely. It might be his birthday, but such things meant little to nothing here in Little Whinging.

He quickly let himself out of his little room, which he rented from a very stern and grumpy little woman called Amelia, and made sure that all his carefully laid wards were in place before leaving the house.

It was a ritual of his. Now that he had his own place and possessed things of his own, he knew he had a bit of a complex about keeping it all safe from others.

As he walked down the small, cobbled streets towards the village infirmary, he allowed himself to breathe in the fresh summer air and listen to the silence of just-before-dawn. He actually enjoyed these morning walks he got to himself; when no one had really risen for the day yet to harass him.

Harry Potter was not well-liked amongst the rebels of Little Whinging. With his ebony hair, his fine, pale skin, and enchanting eyes, he supposed he looked like someone aristocratic and privileged; someone who didn’t belong in this village of outcasts and bandits.

His aunt and uncle had certainly made sure that no one here made him feel as though he belonged. Ever since he could remember, they had treated him like nobles might treat a house elf whilst spreading around lies about how he came from Pure Blood and acted like it at home – demanding, whining, and just largely unsatisfied. Such behaviour was not appreciated in places as these, and Harry had promptly been ostracised and bullied by, well, everyone. Children, peers, and elders alike never failed to let him know that even in this village of misfits, he would never belong.

It probably didn’t help matters at all that he would never react to what they said or did. He had learned early on that doing so only brought them gratification – and Harry refused to be their source of petty entertainment. No, he held his chin high and ignored them all.

Outwardly, at least. Inside, he could admit to himself that it hurt. But it was an old wound now; scabbed over many times. Their words could only bring a slight twinge now.

And they hated him for that as well. Some had tried to overcome his icy exterior by throwing various curses and hexes his way, and others had attempted physical violence against him. But after his magic had matured, they had realised fast that doing so was at their own peril – he could effortlessly and without strain reach out with his magic and snuff out any and all attacks on his person.

And so the villagers also feared him. They whispered about him and threw disgusting slurs at him, but they never dared anything more than that.

Inside, he could also admit that it was lonely here.

As soon as he had been able to find employment, he had moved out of the Dursleys’ home and into his own, lousy room across the village so he wouldn’t have to run into his relatives daily. It really _was_ lousy, but it was his own. And it only took him about fifteen minutes to reach the infirmary, whose doors he had barely entered when Healer Poppy Pomfrey poked her head out from around the corner where their little break-table stood.

Her already wrinkled face crinkled even more as she smiled widely at him before standing and rushing over to hug him.

Harry’s eyes widened and he winced at the show of affection for a moment, but then he got over himself, smiled and wrapped his arms around her as well. She was really the only person who had ever taken pity on him when he came to her about five years ago. A miserable and down-trodden little boy he had been, starved for affection and starved in general, and she had, as the first person in his life, let him in. Under her tutelage and guidance, Harry had become well-versed in the arts of healing and brewing medical potions, which Harry had since sworn his life to.

Really, he would be eternally grateful for Poppy Pomfrey.

“Happy birthday, dear boy,” she murmured softly into his chest, from which she simply _must_ have felt his heart warming.

“Thank you, Poppy,” Harry responded only a little tearfully, rubbing the smaller witch’s back before letting go and stepping back.

She smiled up at him and raised her fickle right hand and caressed his left cheek. “My, you’re growing into a handsome young man, you are,” she teased him with a glint in her light blue eyes.

Harry blushed charmingly and rolled his eyes affectionately at her when she laughed at his reaction, before responding, “You’re a real menace, is what _you_ are,” prompting another laugh from her.

“Come on then, handsome boy, let’s get some breakfast in you before we start our day. I was thinking that you might start brewing some more blood-replenishing potion today; you only need to venture out to pick some nettle leaves, everything else you need should be here,” Healer Pomfrey said, and Harry nodded, mentally going over the ingredient list as they sat down to eat breakfast together.

…

The morning passed quite pleasantly for Harry as he allowed himself to be immersed in the act of brewing, which he always found extremely relaxing and meditative. After a short lunch break, Harry took over the overseeing of patients in the infirmary as Healer Pomfrey went out to the scheduled home visits for that day.

Nothing major came in during the rest of the afternoon; a couple of broken bones, an infected wound, a family with stomach ailments that must have stemmed from rotten or infected food or water, and a head wound which required a bit more of his attention, but overall a quiet day in the infirmary for him. It was always humorous to him; people despised him on the streets, but they never minded it when he healed them.

After Healer Pomfrey returned, they slowly began closing the place down, making sure that no fires were left unextinguished, and the older lady invited him to dinner at the tavern not far from the infirmary.

Harry looked warily over at her before answering, “That might not be the best idea, Poppy…”

“And why ever not?” She asked back indignantly whilst placing her closed fists on her hips, looking extremely disgruntled at her apprentice’s lacklustre response. He smiled indulgently at her.

“You know how people get when I show up-”

She was having none of that.

“Oh, bugger them all, Harry Potter,” she said, waving a hand dismissively in the air. “They can just deal with me – and trust me, I may look old, but they wouldn’t want to and they well know it!” She finished with a decisive ‘hmph’, leaving her young charge quite amused and resigned at the prospect of what he was sure would be an eventful night at the tavern.

At that thought, the sense of foreboding from the morning returned quite fiercely. Harry had managed to forget about it during the day, but as he and his mentor locked up and started for the tavern, he couldn’t hide his unease. Poppy noticed and frowned at him.

“Harry, whatever they say to or about you, you know that it’s never true, right? They’re just a bunch of jealous and petty villagers who don’t have anything better to do,” she assured him in a serious tone.

He mustered up a smile for her before shaking his head a bit. “It’s not that – well, not only that. I just…” He held his breath for a second and let it go slowly as he considered her, knowing he was going to sound slightly deranged for what he was about to say. “I have this feeling that… I don’t know, something’s going to happen tonight.”

Poppy raised a grey brow at him, and bit her lip as she contemplated his words. “Something good?” She asked.

Harry raised both his brows and shook his head with pursed lips, “That’s the thing, really – I can’t tell,” and then his brows furrowed at the ridiculousness of it all. “Oh, just ignore me, I’m sure I just need more sleep,” he concluded with a wry twist of his lips.

But Poppy turned to him right outside the lively tavern and shook her head forcefully at him and poked his chest with an index finger. “Harry, _never_ ignore a feeling like that. Some witches and wizards are born with the ability to know or feel what will come, and while I’m sure it’s not the nicest gift, it _is_ a gift that you must heed if you have it,” she spoke to him in a no nonsense sort of voice.

He expressed his confusion at her, “I really don’t think it’s a premonition, Poppy – why would I all of a sudden develop such an ability?”

She scoffed at him whilst rolling her eyes, “You should know by now that some magical gifts don’t manifest until an individual is ready for them. A witch’s or wizard’s seventeenth birthday is special, and this very well might be an indication that you possess some psychic abilities.”

His eyes widened at her words, considering the possibilities. He wasn’t sure he liked the idea of it all, but then he probably wouldn’t really have a say in it. Poppy raised her brows meaningfully at him to make sure her point was heard, and he nodded slowly at her. She shook her head despairingly at him, muttering something about ‘so smart, and yet…’ under her breath before grabbing a hold of his arm and dragging him inside the tavern.

“Come on, let’s feed you.”

…

Harry had been right, they shouldn’t have come. As soon as they had found an empty table and made themselves comfortable, Harry allowed himself to acknowledge the scathing glances and the muttered insults, and he could feel himself closing down so everything could just bounce off of him.

Poppy nudged at his foot with her own and smiled confidently before exclaiming loudly, “Don’t you worry, Harry, these people will keep to themselves unless they never want another sober-up or pepper-up potion from me again!”

Eyes all around widened in alarm before everyone turned away to act as though Harry had never been there.

Harry Potter would really, _really_ be eternally grateful for Poppy Pomfrey. He cracked a wide smile at her and reached over to squeeze her hand.

As they ate and drank for the next hour or so, Harry could almost pretend that everything was all right. That he was just letting the only mother-figure he had ever had treat him to a birthday dinner without the people in the tavern paying him any mind… and that this annoying sense that something was going to happen wasn’t creeping closer and closer with every moment that passed.

When he finally couldn’t contain the twitchiness that accompanied the feeling any longer and was just about to tell Poppy that they should leave, the door of the tavern opened and in stepped two figures covered in dark, black capes with long hoods obscuring their faces.

Harry realized, with a shocking feeling of déjà vu, that he had been waiting for this moment ever since he entered the tavern; he had unconsciously placed himself facing the door and his eyes had been focused on it a long while before it had opened.

Silence descended in the tavern as the figures made their way to the counter. They were obviously Pure Bloods – anyone with functioning eyes could see as much. The black capes so fine that no one within many a miles of this village would ever be able to afford them, with matching black gloves and boots of dragonhide so shiny that they looked like they had never even touched the ground.

Whispers started amongst the rebels in the tavern; they were not at all pleased with high-borns of such privilege stepping foot in Little Whinging. Harry cursed under his breath, feeling that this could only mean trouble for everyone involved – Pure Bloods did not come to rebel territory without cause.

Poppy raised her eyebrow at him as if to say “See? See what I said?”, and he nodded resignedly at her before returning his attention to the strangers in the centre of the tavern.

One of them started speaking, and Harry _blushed_. That voice… it was almost plucked directly out of every wanton dream he had ever had; sensuous and dangerous and rich and deep. He had to shift in his seat, because he could swear that he had heard that voice whisper some decidedly _wicked_ things in his ears whilst _wicked_ things were being done to his body.

“At ease, everyone, be assured that we come with no ill intentions tonight,” _that voice_ began, and amidst his hormone-addled response, he managed to mentally scoff at the ‘tonight’ at the end of that sentence. The other black-clad figure twitched slightly as though he had the same thought as Harry.

“Yeah? Well, what are you here for _tonight_ then, you fucking puries?” Spoke a woman from Harry’s right, and Harry winced.

 _Were they_ trying _to start something?_

The figure who had spoken tilted his head in what seemed, to Harry, like feigned contemplation, the hood falling ominously to one side.

“We are looking for someone,” the figure continued slowly, and Harry twitched, his heart starting to pound faster. “Someone who does not belong here.”

Harry’s eyes widened marginally as nearly everyone turned to look at him at once, the two figures following the gazes to land directly on him. _That_ figure’s hood jerked up for just a moment, and all Harry saw was burning crimson orbs before the hood lowered itself again.

“Ah, _there you are_ ,” the _voice_ purred, and Harry felt warm all over as he swallowed in uncertainty.

But Poppy was having exactly none of it as she stood and blocked Harry from their view, raising her voice so it rang loudly across the room, “And what _exactly_ is it that you think you want with _my ward_?”

She was ready for a fight, and Harry’s throat had never closed up so fiercely as it did at those words. He wanted to hug the woman and push her behind him all at once, but he was planted to his seat. He couldn’t see the figures, but he heard the smooth chuckle clearly from where he had frozen.

“Do not worry so, madam, I merely wish to speak to the boy,” he said, and Harry couldn’t ignore that he had only included himself, and not his partner, in that wish. “You may, of course, accompany us if you’d like.”

“I _would_ like, yes,” established Poppy as she turned back to Harry and searched his gaze. He glanced around and saw all the distrustful glances thrown his way, full of hatred and scorn. He looked back up at her, took a deep breath and nodded once before standing. From over Poppy’s grey hair, he saw flash of white from beneath the hood.

His eyes narrowed and he took Poppy’s hand and dragged her behind him as they approached the figures. As they neared, _that_ figure turned fully towards him and straightened to his full height, and Harry could just make out the sharp jawline with a hint of stubble and lips that were twisted into a predatory smile.

Harry shivered and realized that he was probably staring longingly at a Pure Blood’s mouth and hurried to glance away, catching what looked like an eyeroll from the other figure who didn’t bother to hide his face as much. He too had a sharp jaw, and Harry could make out a bit of an unfortunately hooked nose and sneering lips that told him that the man was most likely not impressed by either the place or him, or both.

“Well then, shall we?” _The_ figure asked charmingly, holding out his left hand towards Harry, who was… confused. What, did he want him to grab his hand? He furrowed his brows suspiciously at the hand, and the figure scoffed before reaching behind him and casually placing his hand between Harry’s shoulders to push him gently forwards. Harry held back a shiver at the touch, and the figure chuckled lowly near his ear, “So wary you are. You needn’t be, I won’t bite – unless of course, you’d want me to,” he whispered the last part quietly, seductively, in Harry’s ear so that Poppy wouldn’t hear.

Harry’s breath _might_ have hitched just slightly. The figure inhaled sharply at the sound before quickly but gracefully leaning away from him as they all made their way out of the still silent tavern. The hand disappeared from his shoulders, which he was _not_ sorry for, and the cool, evening air hopefully helped diffuse the blush he knew was stretching across his skin.

“What now?” Harry asked abruptly, and it was the first words he had spoken since the figures had entered the tavern, he realized. The other figure, who had also remained silent thus far, finally spoke as well.

“We have a room at the inn just down the street. We can continue this discussion privately there,” the man said, his deep voice betraying his impatience at this entire ordeal.

Harry raised his brows at the reply. He could surmise that this man was definitely not the leader of this party of two – he seemed to be here reluctantly.

Poppy hadn’t let go of his hand since he had grabbed it earlier, and she now briskly started them towards the inn in question with a determined, “So what are we waiting here for?”

Harry glanced behind them to see the two figures following them steadily before turning back around when Poppy squeezed his hand.

They entered the inn, its keeper observing them blatantly with heavy judgment until they had all disappeared up the narrow stairs to the first floor. The other man unlocked a door to a humble apartment with stained, white walls, uneven floor boards, a simple dining table, four uncomfortable-looking chairs, and two adjoining rooms that Harry assumed were where the two figures planned to sleep.

 _The_ figure turned around with a swish of his robe so abruptly that Harry almost stumbled into him. Before he could back away from the man, the gloved hands reached up and pushed the hood down and let it pool at the back of his neck.

Harry’s mouth dried. The man before him was the most handsome man he had ever laid eyes on, there was no mistaking that fact. Rich brown eyes with just a hint of crimson sparkling in the light of the oil lamps, an long, aristocratic nose, and a pair of lips that… Honestly, Harry needed to look away.

Said lips pulled away from each other, revealing perfect, white – and sharp – teeth, and the man stepped back, allowing Harry and Poppy to take a seat at the table before he and his companion took the ones opposite them. _The_ man spoke first.

“Tell me, _Hadrian James Potter_ , what do you know of your birth parents?”


End file.
